It had been several months that I'd noticed it - that feeling in my stomach, a tingling of nerves that people call 'butterflies'. A tangible feeling of anticipation. In this case, brought on by a simple walk down N. Washington Street a block, before turning left onto King Street, the Starbucks ahead of me another block, on the right.
I'd taken to thinking of him as "the cute guy", because i could never remember his name - I wasn't thinking about looking at his name tag when I talked to him. I thought about how nice he was - his smile - and how genuine he seemed when he talked to me; to all the customers. Some people in coffee shops are just churn-and-burn, turn it over and get me out of here. The Cute Guy was different - he was working in the busiest Starbucks, or coffee shop, I'd ever been to, but he always seemed to be relaxed - he always had time to ask me something besides what i wanted to order.
I had gotten my hair done, and had a facial, so my skin was bright pink, a bit raw-feeling, and I had no makeup on. As I passed the 9West shop I ducked into Walgreens. I was being utterly ridiculous. Feeling self concious about being literally red-faced when seeing my barista, I spent $10 on a compact of Physicians Formula tinted face powder - the most gentle option I could find - and stood on the wobbly brick sidewalk patting it all over my face to try to not look like a highly embarassed or very sunburned customer when I ordered my coffee.
In line, I dodged back and forth to see past the sea of taller patrons, jogger strollers, and the coffee machines to see if he was working - I spied him at the drink side - yay! My brain did a little happy dance. The flirtation was all in my head. Until it wasn't.
Stepping up to claim my drink, he greeted me - and while he made some frothy espresso drink for the woman standing next to me, he changed our lives forever with a simple question.
"So what do you like to do when you're not working?"
I couldn't breathe. My mouth formed words that felt like "I like toreadandtravelandcookanddostufflikethat", while my brain yelled to my heart "He's going to ask me out!" It felt like an eternity - I just wanted to get the answer out of the way for what was sure to come next.
"Maybe we could get together sometime."
In my mind's eye, I can still see just a sliver of a profile of the woman who was ahead of me in line - a broad smile peeling back over lovely white teeth, eyes and face obscured by soft blond hair.
"Sure!"
Giving the only "tell" that he was nervous, he stopped right in the middle of making the Nice Woman's drink, and stepped away from the counter to find paper and pen. He wrote down his name DAVID and number and handed it over the counter.
I've always been grateful to the Nice Woman who saw what was unfolding, and chose to let that moment happen for us. It would've been so easy for her to be angry that David stopped what he was doing, and took longer to finish her order. Many times I've wondered what she was thinking, if she was married or single, or why she smiled.
I don't remember what happened after that until i was out the door, and across the street, drink - and phone number - in hand. Staring at the tiny slip of paper, I was terrified that i would lose it. It was also an opportunity to put into action the "no games" policy I'd instituted for myself, newly entering the dating pool. There would be no "three day waiting period" before I called him. There would be no "keep him on tinterhooks". Quickly, I punched the number into a text message, and wrote something like "From Rebecca: I'm looking forward to hearing from you. This is my number."
It was important to me that it was clear that I really did want to get together - that I was not just being nice, and most importantly, that I'd not walked out of the shop and dumped his phone number into the trash. I took a deep breath, hit "Send", and walked back down the street. Or maybe I floated. I honestly can't remember.
July 3, 2009.
I picked jeans and a black shirt - the same one that I'd worn the day he asked me out. It was silly, but i figured it might help him identify me - as if seeing me every few weeks for more than a year, he wouldn't be able to pick me out of a tiny cafe with a dozen tables. Back to the wall, i waited. An Asian-looking guy in a red polo shirt and jeans was walking up to the door, opening the door, walking in. Oh my God he's so tall! When someone is behind a shoulder-high counter with a giant espresso machine on top, proportions become distorted. He saw me, smiled, waved, and sat down.
Afraid it would go badly, I made plans with a friend to see a movie at 7:30pm, but set my phone alarm for 5:00pm in case I needed to end the date early - anyone can survive two hours on a date, right? It was 3pm when David ordered a slice of cheesecake, and brought two forks and a flimsy plastic cup of water back to the table.
"Dig in!"
Looking around, we noticed all the chairs were turned up on the tables, and the doors were locked. It was 7pm, and the cafe was closed. We never saw the others leave. We didn't notice the staff cleaning the tables next to us.
August 21, 2014.
Five years, one month, and eighteen days.
I love him so much. More and more, every day.
Some reasons, you know; some reasons are only for us.
The word love is such a blunt instrument to express all the shades and depths and types of love. As if my tongue has been cut out and my hands tied, I cannot articulate the bone-deep, heart-aching love I feel. So I sink against his chest and listen to the beating of his heart against my ear, and let a woosh of air from my lungs, and his chin tips down to rest on my head. There are no words in any language that feel that good.
I love him so much it's ridiculous.
And that's all you really need to know.
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